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Wednesday, July 20, 2011

July 20, 2011

I grew up being invisible to all but a very few of my Friends. It is almost as if i invented shy, if I didn't invent it I surely perfected it. I made up fantasy tales in my mind, mostly to compensate for my shyness.As time went by, my tales (to myself, and a few of my friends) became more vivid, while my shyness increased (if that is possible).When I finally married (I was 33 the first time) and we had children I would tell our children made-up bedtime stories, which they enjoyed. My son would tell me I should write them down, which i never did. As the children got older, and the marriage came to an end, I stopped telling the bed time stories. I reverted back to telling them to my number one fan (myself). Many years passed, another marriage failed, and I was still making up fantasy realms and stories for my number one fan (still myself).When I met my current (and greatest) wife, her daughter was 11 at the time, so I started telling her my fantasy stories. My wife and daughter both told me I should write them down, to which I said "Someday, I just might do that"Well life got in the way. We were living in San Diego, and let me tell you that great weather comes with a price, mainly fast living and high costs. Not to mention fires (yes we were evacuated during the 2003 wild fires in San Diego, the fire actually came within a few hundred feet of our house) Finally we had enough of "big city" living, I got a job in a small (actually 3rd largest city in Missouri) town, life slowed down to a comfortable pace. One day we were riding in the car, headed for Branson, and I mentioned I might just start writing a children's book, to which my amazing wife said "Ya I have heard that before, why don't you shut up and do it?"I don't write for the money, I write because I love it.}

Yup, I wrote that. I keep looking back at that post, and I think it is Corney, out of place and somewhat pathetic. I thought that until I read this.

"........unpopular through out my schooldays, I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons...."
----- George Orwell -----

George reminded me of me, except I am not famous, and I survived 1984.

Rereading my Corney, out of place, somewhat pathetic post, again gave me an epiphany. No matter how Corney this post happened to be, there was no way of denying the truth of that post.

Now that I have mastered the science of time travel, I need to fast forward to September 1, 2008. Place "American Idol" Query Tracker Forum.

{I ask myself, am I the singer from American Idol that just can't sing? You know the ones, the ones that think they are sooooo good, but when they open their mouths crap comes out.They have no idea they can't sing. They are shocked when Randy or Simon tell them how pathetic they are. They actually thought they were the best singer in the world. Every viewer and the judges knew otherwise.Am I the terrible singer, and are the literary agents Randy and Simon?}

Yup I wrote that one too, but it did generate some marvelous responses.

"Can I not write?"
"If you truly love what you do"
"Can you walk away?"
"I have to write."

are a paraphrases of a few of the responses, and on September 1 my answers to theses responses would have been.

"No,I don't need to write."
"Yes, I do love what I do"
"Yes I can walk away, in a heart beat"
"I do not now, or will I ever need to write"

Fast forward to the time of my unfortunate, flattened by the reality driven steam-roller accident.

Being ran over by reality leaves one heck of a side-affect, namely clear vision. I know now why I write.

Years of living in oblivion and invisibility has its advantages, it defined who and what I am.

I was not born to write. My childhood set me on the path to writing. My life led me down that path. I have not been able to leave that path, no matter how hard I have tried.

My journey down that path came to an end August 28, 2007, when I came face to face with the only outcome my childhood would allow. There I was face to face with myself, a writer. Yes me, a writer, forged with years of failure, success, good times and bad times.

I had no choice. I had to write. It is what my childhood chose for me.

"The only reason for being a writer is that you just can't help it"
---Leon Rotsen---

Writing is not a job. It's not a hobby. It's a drive, a journey. It's something within us that needs to be released.

My journey down the path ended abruptly, but I am now on my way on a new path. I can't give up. I need to write, I love writing, I can never walk away from writing.

I am not the person that can't sing on American Idol. (new ending. I am not the person that can't sing, I might be the one that got tired of waiting in the crowd and went home, but by damn I can sing)


  1. Someone once told me that the opposite of love is not hate, it is apathy. When the passion is gone, that's when you throw in the towel. From what I just read, your passion is still burning strong. It's not time to go home yet.